


It's been a year

by Fantony



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Friendship, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Post-Reichenbach, Suicide, first death anniversary, graveyard
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-10
Updated: 2014-03-10
Packaged: 2018-01-15 07:36:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,171
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1296739
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fantony/pseuds/Fantony
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Hey, Sherlock… I know it's been a while… It's been a year, actually… Strange anniversary, if you ask me… Anyway, I've brought you flowers. Blue irises, see? That's the first time I buy flowers for a man. People will talk again, huh?" The graveyard, one year exactly post-Reichenbach. Very slight slash. Can actually be read as deep friendship as well.</p>
            </blockquote>





	It's been a year

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this last year, after watching Reichenbach for the first time. I really felt John's pain in the final scene as my husband died in 2012, three weeks after his 10th suicide attempt of the year. Through that OS, I want to express what I imagine John is going through after Sherlock's "suicide": the pain, the anger, the guiltiness, the denial, the confusion… 
> 
> Please, keep in mind that I'm French, hence the English mistakes ;)
> 
> (originally written on April.28 2013)

**IT'S BEEN A YEAR…**

"Hey, Sherlock… I know it's been a while… It's been a year, actually… Strange anniversary, if you ask me… Anyway, I've brought you flowers. Blue irises, see? That's the first time I buy flowers for a man. People will talk again, huh?" He chuckles nervously, but then bites his lower lip, his smile fading away.

"A year… That's just crazy… Is it long? Is it short? I can't even tell… I lost track of time. When I think of you falling, it feels like it was yesterday. When I think of you smiling… It was an eternity ago. In another life…" He pauses and lets out a long sigh. "I know I haven't visited you often… Well, actually, I haven't come back here at all since… you know… I hope you don't bear me a grudge. It's not that I have forgotten you or anything, not at all, believe me! If only you could see how… Never mind… It's just… Well… I know this is stupid but I still secretly hope none of this happened. That I didn't see what I saw that day. That it was just my imagination which was playing tricks on me or that you faked your own death just like Irene did in the past, and that one day you'll show up in the living-room like a tornado and exclaim _John, I need a case!_

But when I see your name on that headstone… That name which now makes me freeze anytime I hear or read it… That name I could no longer stand to see dragged through the mud… When I see your name on that black stone… It just ruins all my hopes. It makes your death real. Palpable. And it just makes things worse.

_Time will ease your pain._

I swear I'll punch right in the face the next person who says that to me! Time's a bitch! It doesn't do a damned thing! Those who say that have obviously not experienced the death of someone they truly cared about! Actually, the more time goes by, the more I miss you. The more it hurts. Just because I can pronounce your name without having my voice crack, just because I am now able to smile again, people assume that I feel much better, that I've got back on track. But this is just a mask. A mask I allow myself to drop only when I am alone.

_Life goes on._

That's what they tell me, too. Yeah, sure. Life goes on. The world keeps on turning, and for your information, yes, the Earth still goes around the Sun. Just saying! And Paris Hilton's Chihuahua still manages to sleep at night. But my life has stopped. It's like it doesn't have any meaning anymore. Sometimes, I don't even remember my life before you. I feel like you've always been around. I feel like I've always known you. I feel like we grew up together. That we were mates at University. That you followed me in Afghanistan. How did I live without you? How did I deal with the boredom? The loneliness? I was only _surviving_ , and you made me live… I owe you so much…

My biggest mistake is to have taken you for granted. I thought we'd live in Baker Street forever. I thought that we'd have grown old together and that you'd have become a grumpy old fart who'd still cheat at Cluedo. And then you left and now I feel like a lost puppy.

It's been a year, Sherlock, and I am terrified when I think of all the others I'll have to spend without you…

Mrs Hudson keeps telling me I should give all your stuff to charity. That it'd help me moving on.

But it's out of the question! I won't let anyone lay a hand on your things. Besides, I'm not even sure I want to move on. I don't know… It reassures me to have all your things untouched. Gives me the illusion you're still living there. The only thing I got rid of is the brain you were keeping in the fridge. You understand, I'm sure. But apart from that, your toothbrush is exactly where it was though I still don't understand why you kept it in the cloves jar, the book you were reading is where you left it and I don't give a fuck that people using our toilet keep asking me why I'm reading a book about taxidermy, and your violin…

Well, your violin remains desperately silent. Oh, I'd give anything to hear you play again! I don't think I've ever told you that but… Do you remember, the day we met, you told me that you played the violin when you were thinking, and you asked me if I would bother… Well… I never bothered… That's the exact opposite. I loved it when you played. I loved hearing the melodies, of course, but I also loved watching you. There was something so graceful about you. You seemed to float in your own bubble, as if time had stopped and you weren't aware anymore of the world around you.

It took me two days to find the scores you have written. What the hell were they doing in the microwaves' user instructions?! Oh! By the way, that little search also allowed me to find cigarettes behind the reproduction of Van Gogh's Starry night! I thought you didn't have any secret supplies left! You fucking liar!

Anyway… About the scores... I considered bringing them to a music school and ask someone to play them for me. But then I changed my mind. This is gonna sound terribly selfish, but I didn't want to share them with anyone. I wanted them to be mine, forever. I'm pretty sure some of them were written for Irene, the saddest ones, and none of them were for me, obviously, but it doesn't matter. The thing was, I had never touched an instrument in my life, which was quite a problem if I wanted to hear the melodies but didn't want anyone to play them for me, wasn't it? Yeah, yeah… I did that… I registered for private music lessons. No need to laugh, ok? And I do know it'll take years of practice before I can play your scores, because that stuff is just so fucking hard to play, really! But never mind, I have all the time in the world and I don't know what to do with it. Oh, and don't worry! I don't play your violin! I bought my own one, because otherwise, I know you'd say I'd be an insult to that poor instrument. Truth is I wouldn't have touched it, anyway. It was yours… Only you can play it…

I also kept your scarf. That damned scarf. It's old. It's pilling. But for some reason that clearly escapes me –hey, I don't have your brains, you know?- you've always cherished it and would have never gotten rid of it. That's why you never wore the one I gave you for our first Christmas together. Well, you wore it a few days before telling me you had lost it. It's wrong. It's on top of your wardrobe. I knew from the start but I never said a word about it because I was already flattered you wore it a couple of days. When you don't like a present, you usually just say it out loud with your legendary tact, so it meant a lot to me. Anyway, that scarf's now covered with dried blood that brings back awful memories, but I just can't resolve to wash it up. It has the metallic smell of blood, but it also still smells of your aftershave. Vetiver. I've always told you I hated that scent. Well, it's still true, but I miss it nonetheless. So, sometimes, I close my eyes and smell it. And for a very short, very ephemeral instant, it feels like you're just beside me.

Oh, I can hear you… You think I'm getting all emotional and stuff and that it's utterly ridiculous. But you know what? Screw you, Sherlock!

If you hadn't made it a point to distance yourself from any emotion, then you would have never done that to me! You wouldn't have been that selfish bastard who jumped off the roof of St Bart's. You would have given it second thoughts and would have thought of the pain it was going to cause me! You wouldn't have left me all alone, Sherlock!

Oh, I wish I'd never been shot at that bloody war! I wish I never met Mike Stamford that day! I wish I never agreed to be your flatmate! I regret the day you crossed my path, Sherlock Holmes!"

He buries his head in his hands and breaks down.

"I'm sorry…" he says once he manages to speak again. "Forget about that… I don't think a word of it… I don't regret that day. Not at all. You're the best thing that happened to me in my life and instead of mourning your death, I'd rather be glad that I even got the chance to know you at all… but easier said than done… I miss you so much…

I'm angry with you because you have left me… But I'm even more angry with me because I have let this happen…

I was so convinced you didn't care about what people said, I was so sure you had divorced yourself from feelings, like you said, that it never occurred to me you could be that affected by what was going on… Oh, Sherlock… I never thought you would have… If only… If only I had paid more attention to you… If only I had seen through the veil of your eyes…

Then I wouldn't have been tricked into going to Mrs Hudson… I would have never left your side… If only I had arrived at St Bart's just one minute earlier… If only I had found the right words… At the right time… Then maybe you wouldn't have jumped…

If I had told you how important you were to me… How much you meant… How much I believed in you…

God, I feel so bad, Sherlock! I feel like I didn't do anything to save you. People keep on telling me this is not my fault, but I can't help feeling guilty. No one understands… Guilt never leaves me alone…

And I'm tired… I'm so tired, Sherlock… I'm so afraid to sleep… Because of the dreams…

Whenever I close my eyes, I see you fall. Again, and again. Then there's that sound. That horrible, dreadful sound of your head hitting the ground. And that blood. All that blood. _Your_ blood… And then… Nothingness. Emptiness. Void…

Sometimes, the dreams are more pleasant. You smile. You call me boring or stupid. We're on a case together. You analyze. You solve. Brilliantly, as usual. You forget your pants. At Buckingham Palace!" He smiles sadly. "And then the waking's even worse. Because the dream seems so real I almost expect to find you sitting on the couch in your dressing gown, reading the newspapers and telling me absently "Coffee. Black. Two sugars." I'd grumble "Good morning to you too, Sherlock!" but I'd prepare coffee anyway.

But the flat's empty, and so is my heart. My life. The yellow smiley face you painted on the wall keeps smiling at me as if to taunt me. To mock my miserable existence.

I know, I speak too much, and you hate it when people are too talkative. Makes you waste your time. Prevents you from thinking. Yeah, yeah… I know all that. So I guess I'd better shut up, huh?

Just know that before we met, I was so alone and that now you're gone, I've never felt that alone in my whole life. Amazing how one person can make you feel complete, like you didn't need anything else in your life, isn't it?"

His voice breaks and fills with tears again.

"Goodbye, Sherlock… I love you…"

John sniffs deeply and nods in salute before turning on one heel and walking away.

 

Under a huge oak tree next to the headstone, a dark and tall silhouette hasn't missed a thing.

His whole body shaking, Sherlock Holmes lets himself slip against the tree and sits on the grass. Each breath he takes burns like hell. John's last words echo in his head like some kind of strange mantra. No one. No one had ever said those words to him before and he was absolutely sure no one would ever do. His shell breaks into a thousand pieces and his heart feels like it is slowly being crushed by an invisible hand.

"I… like you a lot too, John", he whispers, as his vision becomes blurry. With the back of his hand, he wipes the tears that were threatening to spill over. Only John makes him _feel_.

"We'll meet again. One day. I promise…"


End file.
